In short, The Godfather of Kathmandu is yet another product
of a writer who has obviously attended classes of some sort on How to Write
Novels, who believes in his 1000 words per day regime.
Charming at first, in a caricaturist way, the novel begins to
pall when page after page plods painfully through what looks like a Lobsang
Rampa bizarro world.
And here and there, there is, admittedly, something of some
small worth: a description of a mall rings quite genuine, for example.
But, mostly, a book to give the miss! Or to a Miss? The Missus?
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